Poezja

I will pick up the dust in
a swift scoop-from where
the stars fell and step out,
of the shadows of light.

A détente begins, between
the limbs and eyes, to hold
in check the flames
licking the doors.

How far was the moon
beyond the money's reach? The
man has bared the―
earth's womb, with skulls questioning.

The sucked out blue lake
runs for the shade of wandering
clouds. We divide the thick
silence with unspoken abuses.